


The Writer

by syredronning



Series: MU Book series [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Dark, M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syredronning/pseuds/syredronning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Another companion piece to <a href="http://syredronning.livejournal.com/1208067.html">The Book</a> – alder_knight made me think about Pike/McCoy. Full ISS kink meme thread <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/2144.html?thread=53856#t53856">here</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Writer

**Author's Note:**

> Another companion piece to [The Book](http://syredronning.livejournal.com/1208067.html) – alder_knight made me think about Pike/McCoy. Full ISS kink meme thread [here](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/2144.html?thread=53856#t53856).

Pike never intended to lay his hands on McCoy. He might be a decaying, embittered bastard, but he wasn't suicidal. It was curiosity that made him ask for the doctor, though of course he enjoyed Spock's hateful gaze when the doctor was forced to follow him. Rank had its privileges, after all, and while antagonizing the possible future leader of Vulcan might be foolish, toying with him was still a pleasure.

He wanted to see them himself, the patterns Kirk had told him about, wanted to bare the doctor to his eyes – excruciating enough for the Vulcan who was probably not far away and very, very aware of what was going on here. Pike didn't smile as he brushed his mutilated left hand over the doctor's uniform shirt, already feeling the irregular skin beneath with the fabric. The attempt on his life with that fucking baffle plate had turned him half-crippled, but even with one eye he could stare down the man in front of him. He hated such men - stronger, younger, still _able_ – and loved to reduce them to a whining pulp. He might do that later, with another victim, but with the doctor, he only wanted to see.

The clothes went slowly under his repeated order, but at last the full beauty of the Vulcan calligraphy shone in the cabin's light. The signs started at the collarbone and went right down in front of McCoy's chest and then to its left, the typical staffs with spirals, strokes and dots. They had been done by the hand of an artist - perfectly straight lines, perfectly round curves, never deviating from where the tool was intended to go. Pike followed the line of the leading staff down to McCoy's groin, almost disappointed that it simply ended before the genitals. He ordered him to raise his arms and turn around, and the straight lines surprisingly bent along McCoy's side, starting to curl around his left hip, emphasizing the muscles that lay beneath.

How dearly he would love to destroy this beauty, to claw open this skin that spoke of dedication and desire, so many hours spent in secluded intimacy. He reached out, his battered fingers ghosting over the spiral which had the doctor's nipple in its center. His hand shook as he imagined having this man under his own tools. They would leave broad, brutal patterns on the skin and the cry of his victim in Pike's ear, and for a second he thought about ignoring the warning the signs constituted. Then he reconsidered; there were better solutions to have his way and still not overstep the line.

"Kneel down," he rasped and limped to his desk, fetching the old-fashioned pen he kept more for décor than for usage. When he was back, he grabbed the dark hair with his left hand, pulling McCoy's head back and pressing McCoy's jaw against his groin where only rotten shreds of skin had survived the radiation. Then he took the pen, drawing a first letter onto the man's pale forehead. McCoy closed his eyes as he repositioned the pen and started writing in earnest, crude words that irregularly danced up and down and ended curved around McCoy's left eyebrow in an ugly slant. A perfect gift to his master, Pike thought when he sent him off.

He was not surprised to see freshly healing burns on McCoy's forehead the next morning. He only wished he'd heard him screaming.


End file.
